


Under Wraps

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Blood Loss, Cauterizing, Collapsing, Energon, Gen, Hallucinations, Hiding Medical Issues, Infection, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Secrets, Suspicions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet gets wounded in a Decepticon ambush, but he is forced to leave his patch kit behind in the Autobots' swift retreat. None of the others know he was injured and he tries to keep it that way until he can remake all his tools and fix the problem. He doesn't have much time...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Wraps

Ratchet glanced uneasily at the doors of the med bay, praying that no one would suddenly stop recharge and come in on him. If anyone found out his secret...Shuddering slightly, Ratchet shook his helm free of the thought and returned his eyes to the tangled, energon-splattered wires grotesquely swathing the broken edge of a blade in his left hip.

Earlier that day his companions had gone to investigate a stray Autobot signature—a fairly usual occurrence. Ratchet wasn’t surprised either when Optimus asked him to come along with his patch kit in case the Autobot was injured.

It was a trap. Another fairly usual occurrence. Bulkhead and Optimus had set to smashing the Decepticons while Ratchet called for an emergency ground bridge and then inspected the technology used to fake the signal.

Somehow one of the Cons had maneuvered beneath the other Bots’ defenses. Fortunately Ratchet had sensed the enemy’s presence and turned, hands sharpening instantly into his deadly blades. He and the Con stabbed at the same moment, each catching the other in sensitive—and _very_ painful—places. Ratchet’s optics had blanked for a moment before they rebooted enough to watch the foe fall, both his spark and the stump once called his weapon sputtering.

Ratchet had immediately turned his attention to the place the Con’s weapon had ended up. It had managed to dig beneath his outer hip-plate and pierce the inner, lodging itself into his wires. The medic didn’t know what had come over him, but he had scooped up his fallen outer plate and shoved it back into place before any of the other Bots had seen what had happened.

There had been no time to prepare himself for the agony of running as the Autobots retreated. Ratchet hadn’t even had time to grab his patch kit as the Decepticons forced them back into the ground bridge that the humans back at base had opened for them.

When they were safely through and the portal closed behind them, Optimus did an inspection of his team. “Is everyone alright?”

“Yes, just a bit banged up,” Ratchet joined the others in chorusing.

‘Banged up’. A major understatement, Ratchet knew now, clenching his teeth as he tried to dislodge the broken inner plate, as well as the intruding piece of steel. The plate slid off with only a little bit of painful wiggling, crumbling in Ratchet’s hands as soon as it was out. The blade, however, refused to budge.

Ratchet felt panic stir his spark to a quick pulse. The fuses in his hip had _burned_ _onto_ the blade! He would have to perform surgery to get it out, Ratchet knew, but he couldn’t without his patch kit. Of course, there was one temporary measure to take until he could remake his tools...

“Scrap it,” Ratchet muttered, reaching for his dented outer plate and one of the only instruments that remained—a welder.

 

Miko knew something was up. Ratchet was working as usual, but he was far too quiet. Aside from the occasional distracted grunt or hum, Ratchet said nothing to her, Jack, and Raf. This wasn’t all too suspicious, but when the medic greeted _Optimus_ with barely a wave when he returned from a drive, Miko knew. She decided to try the distraction tactic first.

“Hey, Ratchet,” she tried to catch his attention. “What do you wanna do?”

A pause, so long that Miko repeated the question more insistently. Ratchet startled slightly. “Hm? What is it, Miko?”

“What do you wanna do?” Miko said for the third time, impatience lacing her tone.

“Well, at the moment, keep working without distractions,” was the curt reply.

Miko sulked, climbing up to one of the nearby platforms and bouncing on the balls of her feet to get him to look at her. When it failed, she sulked again. “Oh, c’mon, Doc-Bot! Why don’t you ever get out of base? You _can_ become a car, right?”

A scoff. “Of course!”

“So why don’t you?” Miko hummed challengingly. “Is your paintjob rusty or did you just forget how to drive?”

That did it. Ratchet turned toward her, teal-blue optics narrowed menacingly. “I’ll have you know, young lady, that I once outraced your mischief-accomplice Bulkhead by five cycles!”

“I heard my name,” Bulkhead commented as he entered the room.

Ratchet smirked. “I was just telling Miko about the time I beat you in a race.”

Autobots couldn’t blush, so Bulkhead settled for fidgeting uncomfortably. “Oh, yeah, that. Well, that was a long time ago.”

“Not that long,” Ratchet disagreed.

Miko bounced up and down again, exclaiming, “You should race again!” Both of them hesitated for different reasons, but Miko started pleading. “What’s the harm? Just to our dunes and back, Bulkhead!”

Bulkhead seemed to consider, but Ratchet shook his helm. “I don’t even know where ‘your’ dunes are, so that’s hardly fair! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”

“But—”

“Enough, Miko!” Ratchet snapped. “You need to learn that ‘no’ means no!”

Miko watched, disappointed, as Ratchet whirled, putting his back to her. Her disappointment minutely turned to puzzlement as he stiffened abruptly after the sudden movement, his hand coming to press against his dinted hip. Almost immediately he was off again and the girl wondered if she’d imagined it.

 

* * *

 

 

Ratchet had an uneasy feeling gnawing at his circuits, so he locked the med bay doors this time before limping toward one of the nearby berths and sinking down so he could prop up and examine his injury.

Cutting through the temporary weld that he’d done only the night before was agony, but his receptors were all on high-alert for intruders, making continued attempts to pry away his wires’ grip on the blade excruciating. The spilled energon that stained the shard was sticky and volatile, starting to smoke as his ragged wires sang pain against his probing fingers.

Three soft taps on the bay doors made Ratchet jerk. “Y-Yes?” he called out, hoping his voice didn’t give away the grunt of discomfort he had barely swallowed.

A hum came from the door: “ **So you _are_ in there. I’m kind of glad, because I need my backstrut checked...** ”

 _Bumblebee_ , Ratchet realized as he shoved his hip-plate back into its position and burned it sloppily back into place. “Yes,” he repeated. “I’m coming—just a nanocycle!”

Bee buzzed a greeting when Ratchet unlocked the doors and let him inside. Ratchet responded with a quick nod and gestured toward the same berth he had perched on only moments before. “So you say your backstrut is giving you problems?”

“ **When I tried to get out of berth, I couldn’t sit up right away** ,” Bumblebee explained, wincing as Ratchet got behind him and began poking experimentally.

“Why weren’t you recharging?” Ratchet asked as he squinted at the wires, resolutely ignoring the burning ache of his own.

“ **Why weren’t _you_ recharging?** ” Bee echoed back stubbornly.

“I was working,” Ratchet replied as vaguely and casually as possible. “Were _you_ doing something as productive?”

Bumblebee hesitated for a long moment before confessing, “ **I was going to smuggle some rust sticks.** ”

“You know Optimus would disapprove,” Ratchet scolded him with more amusement in his tone than anything else. “That particular kind of sweet isn’t exactly good for a scout.” With nothing better to serve, Ratchet picked up a spare shard of plating that sat nearby to poke Bee’s backstrut—a shard of his own broken inner plate.

“ **He just likes to keep the sticks for himself,** ” Bee sulked, folding his arms over his chest-plate.

Ratchet couldn’t help but grin. “Oh, no, that can’t be. Optimus Prime, hoarding rust sticks? He would never withhold necessities from us. Hold still,” he added in a sterner tone when the other Bot shook with a buzzy laugh.

“ **Never, huh? He caught me out of berth one time and asked what I was doing. Told him I wanted an energon cube. He got this grave look on his face and said to me, ‘Bumblebee, I fear our supplies are dwindling every night you sneak out of berth. You must refrain from doing so.’** ”

“I see you haven’t,” Ratchet mused as he finished his work and straightened, coming to stand in front of the scout.

Bee blinked innocently. When he saw that his charm wasn’t working on the medic, he mumbled something beneath his static. “ **Will my strut work better now?** ” he asked, smoothly changing the subject.

Ratchet nodded and held out a hand to help his friend up. His smile froze when Bee paused, peering curiously at a splash of energon on the berth. _His_ energon. Ratchet could practically see the gears in Bumblebee’s processor churning, trying to figure out where it could have come from. He had to do something!

“Do you want to get those rust sticks now?” he asked, pulling Bee’s attention away from the blood. “I think I know where Optimus stashes them.”

Bee hummed eagerly, his puzzlement forgotten. When Ratchet returned alone, he gave the berth a thorough scrubbing.

 

Arcee roared into the base, practically throwing Jack off her back before she transformed and stalked toward her quarters. Jack was protesting behind her.

“Whoa! Arcee, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Arcee muttered.

“It’s not nothing,” the boy persisted. “You barely spoke at all during the drive and now you nearly kill me when we come in. Tell me what’s up.”

Arcee expelled heated air through her vents and snapped, “Ratchet and I got in a fight.”

“About what?” Jack asked in disbelief. Arcee knew what he was thinking: Ratchet had a penchant for becoming cross with the _other_ Bots, not with her. Maybe it had something to do with her being a femme, maybe it was because she didn’t mind listening to him explain things, but they maintained a fairly stable relationship.

“I touched one of the tools he’s making to replace his old ones,” Arcee cried, throwing up her hands, “and suddenly he’s in my face, saying I need to leave well enough alone! He went ballistic!”

“That’s strange,” Jack commented. “Miko was telling me that Ratchet yelled at her too when she suggested he race with Bulkhead.”

“Ratch beat Bulkhead the first time,” Arcee told him. “He probably didn’t want to risk losing and being humiliated.”

Jack shrugged and nodded. “Probably. He’s not usually _that_ tetchy, though...”

Arcee snorted. “Are we talking about the same Ratchet?”

“Well, sure, he has his moods,” Jack consented. “It just sounds weird, is all.”

A sudden, sharp clank sounded from somewhere nearby and Arcee snapped to attention. “That sounds weird too,” she said, cautiously moving toward the medical bay.

“Bee, I don’t want it!”

“ **I just wanted to thank you—** ”

“No, no, _no_. The best way to thank me is by letting me be alone!”

Arcee watched in bewilderment as Bumblebee was pushed out of the room into view. When she asked him what was wrong, he shook his helm, looking hurt and confused.

“ **I asked Ratchet if he wanted a rust stick,** ” he explained. “ **That was all, but he got angry with me and, as you can see, kicked me out!** ”

“Where’d you get a rust stick?” Arcee demanded. “I thought Optimus hid them.”

Bee sighed statically. “ **Ratchet helped me get some last night after he fixed my backstrut. He wasn’t at all cross then, but now he’s all wound up. I don’t even know what I did wrong!** ”

Arcee felt something hard and heavy settle into her chest—something apprehensive.

 

* * *

 

 

 _You shouldn’t have shouted at Bumblebee_ , Ratchet berated himself as he examined the piece of metal he was trying to make into something useful. _Or Miko. Or Arcee. Now they’ll suspect something. Scrap!_

He ought to apologize, Ratchet knew, but he was also certain that if he did so, it would make it seem even more suspicious. Despite his many transgressions, Ratchet had rarely apologized for any of them. It was something he regretted, but he had never wanted to make himself vulnerable to harsh judgment and unforgiveness from his friends.

Friends? Ratchet wondered if he could really be their friend now, keeping such a secret from them. It was far more difficult than he’d thought it would be, because now he not only had the emotional guilt but the physical as well. _It's for their good,_ he decided fiercely, not for the first time. _They don't need to worry about this on top of everything else! If they're the least bit distracted in the field and it's my fault, I..._ He would never forgive himself.

Not long before his encounter with Bumblebee, Ratchet had turned to find the Prime standing silently behind him. He’d immediately dropped all his half-made instruments, gasping. “Don’t do that to me!”

“I’m sorry,” Optimus had replied sincerely. He’d started to bend down to retrieve the fallen bits and pieces, but Ratchet had waved him off out of habit and gotten down himself.

That was a mistake. When Ratchet tried to straighten, his hip-plate had seized, dizziness had clutched at him and he’d stumbled, dropping the devices all over again. This time Optimus didn’t listen to his protests, scooping them all up and settling them back on the tray an embarrassed medic held out for him.

“Are you alright?” Optimus asked as soon as everything was back in its proper places.

Ratchet hoped desperately that he’d imagined the suspicion in his friend’s voice. “Fine,” he’d responded shortly. “What do you need?”

“I simply wanted to check up on you,” Optimus explained. Ratchet had been unnerved by his cool demeanor and announced in a clipped tone that he had neither the need nor the time to be ‘checked up on’ and needed to get back to his duties. Optimus had seemed surprised but backed off.

Now Ratchet hoped Optimus wasn’t thinking about the encounter as he was. When Optimus contemplated something too long, it was far too easy for him to overanalyze, figure out that one little nuance that others didn’t want revealed.

Sighing deeply, the medic reached for a tool that sat off to his left. When he brought it back to him, he happened to look down and drew in a sharp breath. Little beads of energon were seeping through the badly reattached hip-plate. Darting a glance toward the others, Ratchet swept them away and cursed mentally as it left a shimmering blue streak over his bright white and red metal. When he rubbed at it frantically, it only smeared further.

Trying to stay calm, Ratchet laid down his tools and strode out of the medical bay, praying that no one would ask—

“Where’re you going, Ratchet?”

—that. Ratchet paused, forcing a smile at Rafael, who had spoken. “To the wash-racks.” He was relieved when no one questioned the statement, not even Optimus.

When in the privacy of the wash-racks, Ratchet focused on scrubbing the sensitive area, suppressing his groans as well as he could. The energon stain burned as it washed off, along with some fresh globs that were worming through the same cracks. He then spent even longer in there by scrubbing the floor, afraid that it would stain blue as well. When Ratchet emerged, the other Bots glanced at him questioningly, no doubt wondering why he had taken so long. Ratchet frowned at them and stalked back into the med bay. Well, it was as close to stalking as he could get with a limp.

 

Optimus stirred from recharge late at night when he heard a series of dull clanks from the medical bay. Sighing quietly, he got to his feet and plunked down the hall toward the noise and the voice that was joined to it.

He stopped in the doorway to study his friend. Ratchet had his back turned to the Prime, engrossed in his latest machine and muttering. Optimus couldn't help but overhear when the medic lifted his helm and snapped, "I'm perfectly fine!" To the corner. The _empty_ corner. 

"Now stop distracting me," Ratchet continued sharply. "I have things to do and you need to recharge just as much as the others."

Optimus was so perplexed by this that he started to move forward when Ratchet suddenly slammed his fist on the part he was working on, crushing it as easily as Bulkhead could have. Immediately he cried out in horror, hands hovering above the newly shattered instrument.

"What have I done?!" he yelped, sweeping up the pieces that had scattered. "I needed that!" Sucking in a breath that sounded agonized to the spying Prime, Ratchet murmured, "I'll repair it. It'll be fine. Go recharge while I fix this. I'll be right after you, Optimus."

Optimus startled. Ratchet had rarely, if _ever_ , gotten the jump on him. He expected the medic to turn and glare at him, but he just kept looking at the corner sadly.

"I'm sure," was the unexpected sigh that came from the deep of Ratchet's vocalizer. "Go."

"Ratchet?" Optimus burst out, concern gnawing at the edges of his spark. 

Ratchet whirled, throwing an arm out to hide the broken tool. "O-Optimus?!" he sputtered in disbelief, his optics darting first to the red and blue mech and then to the corner. "But...you..." 

"Ratchet," Optimus advanced cautiously, "who were you talking to?"

 

Ratchet couldn't understand it. How had Optimus moved from the corner to the door so quickly? And why didn't he remember the conversation they were _just having?_  

"Optimus," Ratchet stammered again, his cheek-plates heating. Even to himself, his voice sounded disturbingly hollow and timid. "What...are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same, old friend," Optimus replied, his brows settling into a wary pose. Ratchet knew Optimus very well and vise-versa. He could feel the Prime silently scanning him, though his piercing blue optics barely moved. 

"I was just working," Ratchet mustered, cringing beneath Optimus' gaze for the first time in many, many years, “finishing things. It needed to be done tonight.”

"I agree," his friend said, which meant he clearly didn't. "But you're not exactly helping yourself by spending days out of recharge and smashing your tools after you fix them, are you?"

Ratchet felt his spark catching in its chamber. "I...no, I guess I'm not. Which is why I'm going to recharge right after I fix it." At Optimus' silent retort of staying where he was, Ratchet whispered, "I promise. I just need more time."

"You'll have time in the morning," Optimus reminded him. Scrap, he was too _close!_ Perhaps it was this that made Ratchet back up further, growling.

"I'm fine. Leave me alone!" Ratchet could feel his vents struggling to draw enough air to fuel his panic. He didn't want to hurt his friend, but he needed to escape him somehow! He was about to say something horrible when the blade twisted, making him lurch with a badly suppressed whimper.

"Ratchet?" Optimus repeated urgently, stepping toward him. 

"No!" Ratchet pleaded. "I’m telling you, I just need time, more time!"

"Time for what?" Optimus demanded.

"Time for...for..." Ratchet gasped as his legs suddenly reeled sideways, sending him crashing to the ground with a bang that set his helm ringing. 

When Optimus cried out in alarm, the medic tried to sit up or stand, but his back and legs weren't functioning no matter what signals he sent them. Optimus loomed over him and Ratchet clutched at his hip-plate in a last ditch effort to hide it. His arms lost their strength at that moment, making it easy for Optimus to pry his hands away. 

Ratchet's sensory net was still faintly functioning, unfortunately letting him feel Optimus' careful fingers working the seemingly fine outer plate off his hip, as well as the energon oozing steadily out of him as soon as it popped.

"Oh... _Ratchet_." Optimus' rumbling tone was filled with disbelief, sorrow, and—oh no, not fear. Please don't let that be fear!

Ratchet tried to answer, to reassure, to stifle the horrible thought of his strong best friend afraid for anything, much less for _him!_  

"Opt-t-t-tim—" Ratchet’s vocalizer spewed static over the last two letters and then cut out painfully. He went slack against his will as other systems shut down one at a time, completely incapacitating him.

"Don't," Optimus entreated anxiously, hands hovering uncertainly over him.

Ratchet shuttered his optics sluggishly as numbness crawled over his circuits. _I hope you remember my med lessons,_ was his last thought before darkness impelled him into stasis with the skill of a team of scraplets. 

 

* * *

 

 

Bulkhead tiptoed across the base, trying to keep his steps light despite his size. Arcee had complained about Bumblebee’s appropriation of sweets, so Bulkhead had rashly promised that he would find some tonight and bring them back.

“Yeah, sure, dummy,” he muttered. “As if you knew where they were. Bee sure wasn’t talking!” The crash and squeal of metal falling caught his attention and he wondered if he should be worried. He had heard from the others that Ratchet had been missing recharge these past days, trying to remake all his tools. Though he considered poking his helm in and asking how things were going, Bulkhead had also heard how cross the medic was and didn’t want something thrown at him. If that happened, he would surely make a racket trying to escape and bring everyone from recharge. That in turn would give the Boss the opportunity to—

“Bulkhead!”

The wrecker froze at Optimus’ voice, knowing, just _knowing_ that he was going to end up as parts for Ratchet’s dissection and medical use for being awake. Wait, why was _Optimus_ awake, anyway?

“I need your help,” Optimus called again. “Ratchet is down!” His anxiety was veiled, but thinly, and Bulkhead heard it. Abandoning quiet, he clomped thunderously over.

“What happened?” he demanded, receiving his answer as soon as he laid eyes on his fellow Autobots. “Scrap,” he cursed immediately.

“Get him onto one of the berths,” Optimus ordered. “Keep him flat when you pick him up, helm down and feet lifted. I’ll prepare an IV.”

As Bulkhead followed Optimus’ instructions, he realized, “This could only have been done in our fight with the Cons! Why didn’t he tell us?”

“He is our only medic,” Optimus reminded him grimly. “He would have handled it on his own if he’d had his tools. That’s why he was so focused on completing the surrogates.”

“And we kept sidetracking him,” Bulkhead murmured guiltily as he maneuvered Ratchet onto one of the berths. “We should’ve noticed these burns on his hip—he must have been welding himself together over and over...Ugh, they’re so _obvious_!”

“There is no use in dwelling on the past. Right now you need to stay focused,” Optimus answered sternly. “Remove the plating on his forearm.”

Bulkhead tried to do so gently, but he was slightly clumsy in his worry and he squished finger-dents into the plating as he got it off. If Ratchet pulled through, he would kill Bulk for that.

When. _When_ Ratchet pulled through. Of course he would! He could have suffered far worse than this, Bulkhead knew. Nevertheless, as Optimus hooked up the IV and spark monitor, the rapid but thready pulse of the medic’s vitals unnerved him.

“C’mon, Ratch,” he muttered under a huff of his vents. “You can’t leave me to annoy everyone by myself! Besides, you only just started warming up to human vocabulary—calling me ‘Blockhead’ instead of my real name.” He sighed with a mixture of sadness and irritation. “Who was being the blockhead this time, huh? Hiding an injury, getting all cross with everybody when you could’ve just asked for help.”

“Bulkhead,” Optimus said quietly.

The wrecker held up a hand. “I know, I know, he can’t hear me because he’s in stasis. Still doesn’t hurt to try.”

 

Ratchet’s systems took their time rebooting. When he realized that he was prostrate, he tested his limbs. His right arm stung when he flexed it and he winced, seeing there was an IV threaded into his circuits.

“Ratchet!” an excited voice cried, far too loud in Ratchet’s opinion. “You’re awake!”

“Unfortunately,” Ratchet sighed, fidgeting as much as he was able. He could now appreciate how uncomfortable the others were when they spent copious amounts of time on these berths. Shuffling these musings away, he turned his helm to find Rafael, leering rather disturbingly by the edge of the berth.

Raf seemed to snap out of his ecstasy when Ratchet glared at him. “I’ll go get the others!” Off he ran, leaving Ratchet to roll his optics and fuss with the IV in his arm. It clung to him stubbornly, as it always did when a certain Prime failed to connect it comfortably. _Ugh_.

“Ratchet, you shouldn’t touch that,” Bulkhead’s bodiless voice warned as it approached. “The Boss took a good deal of time putting it in.”

“Well, he did it wrong and it’s uncomfortable!” Ratchet snapped back, pulling on it again.

“You deserve it,” Arcee announced as she came into his line of sight, “for the worry you caused us.”

Ratchet frowned, his expression one of irritation and confusion. “Worry...?” he echoed, but the sound that followed was a humiliating cross between squeaking and choking. His left hand slipped down to rest on his hip as he recalled what had happened. His fingers found only smooth, repaired metal, sweeping away any fragile hope that his secret had been maintained.

“Yes,” another voice replied. “You had us worried, old friend.”

Ratchet grimaced when Optimus appeared, frowning reproachfully at him.

“Optimus,” the medic tentatively finished the last word he’d tried to say before he’d gone offline, his tone laced with guilt.

“You should have told us,” Optimus stated, the simplicity of his words making Ratchet feel even worse. “You endangered yourself and thereby endangered everyone else. We cannot afford deceptions, lies; it only gives the Decepticons a greater advantage.”

“Oh.” Ratchet was unsure what else to say beyond that. As Optimus had studied him before his collapse, he now studied the Prime and found, to his dismay, that he could still see the softness, the hurt and concern in his optics, belying his steady, calculated words. He hadn't just endangered them, Ratchet realized, he had _wounded_ them. When one was wounded, the others suffered too. Another wave of guilt forced him to release a shaky sigh. “Well...uhm, I—I’m...sorry, all of you. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Optimus nodded his consent. “Do you know you can trust me now? Trust all of us?”

After severa kliks, Ratchet barked a short laugh, catching them off guard. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I can trust you to completely botch up an IV. Let me show you how to do it right!”

 


End file.
